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Mourn, Spring, thon darling of the year!
Much have I travel!'d in the realms of gold
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My liege, I did deny no prisoners...
My mind to me a kingdom is

My soul is an enchanted boat

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled

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Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the north-west died away
No tree in all the grove but has its charms

No wrath of man, or rage of seas
Noon descends around me now...

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Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame...
Not in the solitude

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Now Nature hangs her mantle green

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Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

O blest of heaven, whom not the languid songs

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O blithe new-comer! I have heard
O dear Britain! O my mother isle
O ever welcome are the grand old woods
O Evening grey! how oft have I admired
O Father, Lord!

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O for the coming of that glorious time...
O! I would walk

O Ignorant poor man! what dost thou bear
O Life, O Death, O World, O Time

O list the mystic lore sublime

O Lord divine! that stoop'd to share

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O love of loves! to thy white hand is given

O lull me, lull me, charming air

O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
O sweet Fancy! let her loose

O that we now had here

O that we now had here

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O thou bright thing, fresh from the hand of God
O vale and lake, within your mountain urn ...
O weary heart, oppress'd with care

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O what a glory doth this world put on ...

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O what an hour was that! when from the main

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms

O wild West Wind, tnou breath of Autumn's being
O ye dales of Tyne

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Oh, to be in England

Oh, wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the north

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary
Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee

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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

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Orpheus, with his lute, made trees

O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies

Poet of Paradise, whose glory illumed

Revolution sweeps o'er earth

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She died in beauty, like a rose blown from its parent stem
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff

She was a phantom of delight

Shed no tear! O shed no tear!

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough

Sleep soft, beloved! we sometimes say...

Slowly, slowly up the wall

Some humble heart is sore and sick with grief
Some I remember, and will ne'er forget

Soon will the moon and all her stars be here
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea
So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies ...
So it falls out

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Spake full well, in language quaint and olden
Speak gently to the erring ...

Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet
Speak you so gently? pardon me, I pray you
Stand here by my side, and turn, I pray
Stern Daughter of the voice of God
Swallow, swallow, hither wing

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Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content
Sweet bird! that sing'st away the early hours
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright...
Sweet Evening hour! sweet Evening hour
Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet
Sweet is the pleasure

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The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter
The book is completed

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The breeze had sunk to rest, the noonday sun was high.
The crackling embers on the hearth are dead
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
The castled crag of Drachenfels

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The mid day hour of twelve the clock counts o'er
The mysteries of the Angel-world
The milk-white blossoms of the thorn
The Minster is a marble psalm
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone
The night is come, but not too soon
The noonday sun now shone upon the forest
The painter's hues stand visible before us
The point of one white star is quivering still
The rain is playing its soft, pleasant tune
The sky is overcast

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The sky is changed-and such a change! Oh, night
The shades of night were falling fast

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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew
Thought shines from God as shines the morn
Through the stifling room...

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The world is too much with us

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The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing
The winds breathe low; the withering leaf
The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
The way was long, the wind was cold
The year's at the spring

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Then came fair May, the fairest maid on ground
Then came the jolly Summer being dight
Then let us be content in spirit, though
There also was a Shipman from far West
There are homesteads which have witness'd deeds
There is some soul of goodness in things evil
There is a land, of every land the pride...
There is a land of love

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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
There was a sound of revelry by night...
There was a little lawny islet

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These are thy glorious works, Parent of good
These as they change, Almighty Father, these
These flowres white and reď
They fell devoted but undying
This isle and house are mine, and I have vow'd
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle...
Those haiting tones that sound to you...
Thoughts of home! how sad they twine
Though I look old, yet am I strong and lusty
Thou art not dead; thou art not gone to dust
Thou art, O God! the life and light
Thou wert a vision of delight

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"Tis liberty alone that gives the flower"
"Tis sunset; to the firmament serene
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back
Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
To the Ocean now I fly

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What saith the river to the rushes grey
What soul was his, when from the naked top
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?
What then is taste but these internal powers...
When doubts torment, and fears assail...
When eve is purpling cliff and cave

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
When I wedded thee, the land was free!
When Music, heavenly maid! was young
When the hours of Day are number'd
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought...
When twilight's parting flush
When urged by strong temptation to the brink
Whence art thou, flower?-From holy ground
Where are the swallows fled?

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Where will they stop, those breathing Powers

Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer

Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest

Who says we are craven and cold?

Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant

Would I describe a preacher such as Paul

Would that I were a river...

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Wish'd Morning's come; and now, upon the plains

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With other ministrations thou, O Nature

With little here to do or see...

With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appear'd
With the sweet airs of spring the Robin comes

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Ye wintry flowers, whose pensive dyes
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door
You ask me why, though ill at ease
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear
Young folk now flocken in everywhere
Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preachers

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